


SAMEFACE

by fleet



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Clones, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:53:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleet/pseuds/fleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among other things: a heist, a time machine, Pangea, a hundred and ninety seven twins (otherwise known as centi-deca-deca-deca-deca-deca-deca-deca-deca-deca-heplets) and some illegal cross-country. But that's oversimplified, and missing <i>the big thing</i>. (The big thing being, of course, none other than the DCV Experiment.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	SAMEFACE

**Author's Note:**

> originally started writing this for orange_unicorns @ lj, but the plot went way out of hand and i couldn't finish on time so it went on the back burner.

**PROLOGUE**  


 

 **張藝興.**  
  
His skin is prickling, and it's not because the smoke from the man sitting next to him is unfurling, hot and irritant, over his shoulders. It's because there is something strange on these screens.  
  
The monitor on the right shows a figure in a baseball cap and tracksuit, checking in at the cashier with groceries. The resolution isn't the best, but he already knows what's in the bags: two clinking bottles of milk, a roll of toilet paper, a new razor and a box of 2.0 Staedtler pencils. The time on this screen reads 20.52, 11th February, 2063. The location, proclaimed in unrelenting uppercase, is CHANGSHA, CHINA.  
  
The monitor on the left shows another figure, at a warehouse for car spare parts. No cap here, just a T-shirt and jeans. Big pumps, though, and countless colorful bracelets around the bony wrists. The guy dawdles around a bit, bending low and going through the contents on shelves, in crates, before finally leaving off with a large belt and some tools. The time on this one reads 14.52, 11th February, 2063. The location, proclaimed in unrelenting uppercase, is PALERMO, SICILY.  
  
Palermo is six hours behind Changsha, so these two videos were taped at exactly the same time. The figures in the videos are identical. He knows this for sure - the bone structure of the face, the broadness of the shoulders and in the way they carry themselves. It's all the same.  
  
The man tells him the higher ups think it’s the same guy on both tapes.  
  
"Twins?" he ventures, even though he knows it's not possible.  
  
"Ruled out. Fingerprints match. Not even twins are that identical."  
  
So here he is, skin prickling, smoke everywhere, the two monitors replaying the clips over and over again. He forces his mind to think.  
  
There are three fundamental problems with the whole situation, he decides. (one) Nobody can be in two different places at the same time, yet (two) - this is what is strange on these screens - he is on both tapes. on both, even though:  
  
(three) Yixing has never stepped out of Changsha in his entire life.  
  
  
  
  
**LAY.**  
  
It's child's play to kill a bird, nowadays. Especially when you're in the city, the bird is a pigeon, and it's been raining for days on end. The colors of everything are washed into dull, muted browns and grays, the color of a pigeon's feathers. The occasional blue building stands out in thankful relief. (Blue, like a carrier pigeon, long extinct. Wonder how they went.) He turns the steering wheel, eyes fixed up ahead, on the road. He's going too fast, though, flooring on the accelerator, damning any traffic that's in his way.  
  
That's the way he is, fast with words, fast with thoughts, living his life so quick that everything's a blur. He wakes up in the middle of the night - the nights he forgets to take his pills (every night) - shaking and sweating, with a scream halfway through crashing up his throat and scratching it raw, the only thought resounding in his head is that this is all there is. By the time he manages to push it away and convince himself, over and over, well-rehearsed, that although this is all there may be, this is still normal, sunlight floods the room and hurts his head, clock figures reading something past six. He has dark circles under his eyes, he notices, when he glances up in the mirror as he washes his face. He doesn't have breakfast these days; ignoring his rumbling stomach, he slides into his car.  
  
He loves birds, but they're so, so easy to kill. He blinks, notices the pigeon bending low over the water puddle too late. His arms freeze at the wheel and his back straightens and that's all he does. That's all he does. The car gives a hint of a lurch before he's fifteen metres ahead, and only then does he swerve aside. But it's dead, it's dead and he killed it. His stomach heaves slightly, by itself. He has a steel clamp over his gag reflex, though, so it's okay, he's got it, he won't throw up all over the inside of the windshield, he has other things to do, more important things to do, things that will affect more life than one little pigeon in the middle of the road that should have had faster reflexes anyway.

 

**END OF PROLOGUE**

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to continue writing it slowly and updating (probably irregularly bc RL and motivation), though, so yeah. thanks so much for reading so far and wish me luck!
> 
> i am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/clustershuck) if you want to be friends c:


End file.
